Everlastin' Book 1

by Mickee Madden

  Roan crouched low and squinted hard to better discern the figure in white. In the past weeks, he'd seen Beth Staples wandering about the place, most times striking him as being the loneliest soul he'd ever known. He had never felt the slightest animosity toward the woman—ghost. The few times she'd spoken to him while he was going about the work in the first fireplace, he'd found her pleasant and easy to talk to, as long as the master of the house was not mentioned.

  And yet it was because of the master of Baird House that he was there, subjecting himself to the intervals of visits from Lachlan, the baiting remarks issued to provoke him into walking off the job, or perhaps into inciting a showdown.

  If Roan'd the slightest idea how to fight a spirit, he would certainly provoke such a match, but as it was, he was as helpless as a child on that score. He wasn't even sure how much damage Lachlan could actually do to a living being. From Borgie's accounts of what had happened to him—in his own house, no less—Roan knew Lachlan did own of some kind of power.

  Beth Staples was his only hope.

  Rising and stretching his stiff legs, he watched the figure for several seconds longer. The nacreous field between him and her was bathed in blue moon-glow, making the distance appear eerie and starkly remote. His courage wavering, he glanced back at the house. Only a glimpse of window light could be seen through the ice-laden tree branches and the evergreen shrubs. But that glimpse was enough to fuel his determination to sway the woman—the female ghost—to his side.

  A thin layer of ice on the field gave a crunch to his footfalls as he made his way to the solitary tree. Beth was waiting for him when he came to a stop several feet away from the headstone she was standing behind, her fingers absently smoothing the top of the stone's rounded edge.

  “Good evenin',” he said lamely, a nervous twitch of a smile playing on his lips.

  “How long were you watching me?”

  Roan dipped his bare hands deep into his coat pockets. “I wasn't sure if I should intrude.”

  “How's the work going?”

  “Verra weel. I'm waitin' for a shipment o' mortar to come in. Two or three days.”

  “Are you comfortable enough in the carriage house?”

  “Surprisingly, I am, thank you.”

  Roan appeared startled by something, and began to unbutton his coat. But as he was about to shuck out of it, he stopped and shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Aren't you cold?”

  Beth smiled. “Actually, I'm between the two worlds right now.”

  “Between?”

  To explain, she calmly moved one of her hands through the headstone. When Roan's expression became sickly, she stopped.

  “I don't feel anything at the moment.”

  Roan slowly fumbled to rebutton his coat, his gaze glued on her face. “When ye're....”

  “Solid?”

  “I guess tha's a good way to put it.”

  “Yes, when I'm 'solid', I feel everything as I did before I died. I can even enjoy food, and soaking in a hot bath.”

  Roan was impressed, if not befuddled. But he was losing sight of his objective.

  Casually stepping closer, he looked at Lachlan's headstone. His gaze darted to the one beside it and he felt his insides tighten. When he looked into Beth's eyes, he was unsettled to find her watching him with uncanny calm.

  “Are you angry abou' losin' yer life so young?”

  “Not anymore. It was hard, at first.”

  Pulling a hand from a pocket, he rubbed an earlobe nipped by the cold air. “I guess it would be— Weel, I guess it's no' a subject you care to discuss.”

  Beth came around the headstone and stood directly in front of Roan. He couldn't stop his gaze from sweeping over her figure, lingering on the feminine shoulders left nearly bare. When he realized he was treading on dangerous ground, he quickly looked away and pretended to reread the words and dates on the laird's headstone.

  “What do you think of this dress?”

  Roan's head snapped around and he glanced over the gown briefly before looking into the alluring eyes studying him.

  “The dress?” He swallowed and managed a strained smile. “It's fine lookin'. Why do you ask?”

  “I'm not trying to seduce you,” Beth chuckled.

  Crimson stole into Roan's cheeks.

  “I only asked because Lachlan hates it.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Which means, you probably love it, right?”

  “Aye, I do like it.”

  “Does it make me look like a...bloody spook?”

  Roan smiled at the accent she affected. “Weel, Beth, it's got a flow abou' it. And the sleeves. I guess you could say it adds to yer mystique.”

  With a lopsided grin, she admitted wryly, “Maybe he does have a legitimate reason for disliking it.”

  “The old mon? I wouldn't let him talk you ou' o' it—”

  Roan nearly choked on his words. Although Beth laughed softly, he felt as if his humiliation would melt him into the ground.

  “I didn't mean tha' like it sounded.”

  “I know. Roan, did you come here to talk about something specific?”

  “It was just somethin' I've been wonderin'.” Resisting a notion to moisten his dry lips with the tip of his tongue, he shuffled himself more comfortably within his heavy coat. “You know, I see you sometimes wanderin' around. I get the impression ye're no' happy.”

  “You're wondering why I stay.”

  Roan nodded. “Is it him keepin' you from goin' on?”

  Unbeknown to Roan, annoyance began to simmer within Beth. “You make it sound like I'm his prisoner.”

  “Seems to me, you are.”

  Beth moved swiftly, catching Roan off guard. He gasped as something passed through him, something so cold it could not be of his world. Every nerve in his body seemed under assault by ice-hot sensations, and turning one hundred and eighty degrees, he gaped at the woman in something akin to horror. He realized she had passed through him but the why of her action befuddled him.

  “I'm not a prisoner here,” she said in a chiding tone, her body held rigid. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Ingliss.” She stepped up to him and directed his attention to Lachlan's headstone. “Does it bother you that he died young?”

  As hard as it was for him to look upon the fury in her eyes, Roan did. And with the moon's blue glow on her face, her features were all the more eerie, rivetingly haunting.

  “I can't say I feel anythin' for him, no' efter wha' he's put ma family through all these years.”

  “But you see, that's the whole problem. Lachlan isn't the only one holding a grudge. Do you know what's really holding him here?”

  “Spite.”

  Beth whirled away in exasperation. When she faced Roan again, he was stunned to see tears in her eyes.

  “Try to imagine what it was like for him that night! Roan, for one minute, try to imagine someone you loved stabbing you in the heart, then coldly telling her real lover to dispose of the body. Lachlan was still alive when Robert was walling him up.”

  Feeling his stomach churn, Roan tried to turn away, but Beth solidified and her icy fingers clamped onto his chin and forced him to face her. “Robert knew he was entombing a live man! Think about what must have been going through Lachlan's mind while he was waiting for death. Imagine being in that cold, dark place in the tower, knowing you're slowly bleeding to death, and wondering if you'd suffocate first!”

  “Stop!”

  Roan wrenched free and staggered back. He leaned against Beth's headstone, struggling inwardly to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. Fearfully staring at the woman, he swallowed what seemed to be his heart rising in his throat.

  “Actually,” Beth went on in an airier tone, determined one way or the other to penetrate the hatred bred into this man's heart, “Lachlan's got quite a sense of humor in regards to that whole business. The part he's having trouble coming to terms with is the fact that after your family found his remains in the tower, he was buri
ed out here like some evil thing to be forgotten. Not a tear was shed for him.

  “Lachlan has all his faculties and emotions. He can be hurt, and his emotional scars are greater than you could ever imagine.”

  “I can't change wha' happened in the past!” Roan cried, straightening up. “My cousin's hair turned snow-white efter Lannie nearly scared him to death!”

  “Borgie?”

  “Aye, Borgie. He's younger than maself!”

  “Your cousin,” Beth began stiffly, her tone as chilling as the night air, “kindly offered to let me use the phone at his cottage. We ended up in a wrestling match, Roan. Lachlan showed up in time to save me from a degrading act.”

  “Borgie tried to force himself on you?”

  Beth gave a stilted nod.

  After several moments of trying to digest this information, Roan stated huskily, “But you were already dead when it happened.”

  “I wasn't aware of it. Obviously, neither was your cousin.”

  “Damn,” Roan breathed, his expression racked with guilt. “I'm sorry, Beth. Truly, I am. I should have guessed there was mair to the story than Borgie let on.”

  “You're hoping I'll go on, and Lachlan will follow me.”

  The dully spoken words knocked the breath from Roan.

  “Don't bother to deny it.”

  “I'll no' insult yer intelligence by tryin'.”

  “Good, because I won't leave him. I love him.”

  She released a laugh that was choked with tears. “It's impossible not to love him, but your family won't even try to know him!”

  “He's been dead for—”

  “Can you explain to me why you always refer to him as a man?”

  Roan looked helplessly in the direction of the house then despondently into Beth's eyes. “This world is for the livin'. You and I both know tha'.”

  “It's the living keeping him here. Roan, for as long as you and your family resent his presence, Lachlan will remain. It isn't the house keeping him here. The house...what he calls his 'treasures', they're all he's had, but they're not the chains keeping him earthbound.”

  “He has you, now.”

  “I'm not enough.” Beth lowered her head and tried to still the threat of tears. “I don't have the power to heal his wounds.”

  “Or the will?”

  Roan's sarcastic tone brought Beth's head up sharply. “You really don't understand, do you?”

  “I guess no'.”

  “Has he offered you pay for your work?”

  Taken aback by the left-field question, Roan took a moment before replying, “Aye.” Fishing into his right pants pocket, he withdrew something and held it up for her to see. “A ruby equal to a month's work.”

  “He's paying you in precious stones?”

  Nodding, Roan rolled the stone around in his palm. “He was remiss to tell me he has a wee chest hidden away in the attic.” His dryness remained when he looked up at Beth. “I believe he's hopin' I'll prove to be a thief.”

  Beth sighed. “That explains his generosity in paying you.”

  “Aye. Look, Beth, I'm sorry ye're in the middle o' this. But there's nothin' you can say or do to change wha's between ma family and Baird.”

  “Except to pass on? Well you can forget that idea.”

  “It's the only way....” His words trailed off when her attention was drawn to the sound of vehicles pulling up at the house.

  “Are you expecting company?”

  Roan replaced the precious stone in his pants pocket. “It's All Hallows Eve. I daresay the old mon is entertainin' the loony troop.”

  “The what—oh, never mind. It's Halloween already?”

  “Aye.”

  “Does Lachlan do this every year?”

  “As far as I know, he does. It makes for comical readin' in the papers for a time efterward.” Roan poised his hands to accentuate his next words. “LAIRD OF KIST HOUSE RETURNS to LAMENT HIS HEINOUS MURDER. All the locals know he's here all the time but still the papers write up their crazy stories.”

  “Holding these séances is Lachlan's way of repaying Viola Cooke for her help over the years.”

  “Aye, I know abou' her, but trust me, lass, Baird's main objective is to poke jabs a' ma ancestors over the wrongs they done him.”

  “I hardly think Lachlan would stoop that low.”

  “Ask him. He'll tell you right quick he looks forward to this night. Gives him a chance to reopen the wounds o' the past. A friend o' our family sat in on one o' these séances once. He claimed old Lannie put on quite a show, no' leavin' ou' a single, bloody detail o' the whole affair. So, you see, Beth, it's hard to leave the past be when there's so much still breathin' life into it.”

  “How far are you willing to bend to end this feud?” Beth asked softly.

  “I'll no' shed a tear over him, if tha's wha' ye're askin'.”

  Beth began to dissolve. “Wrong answer.”

  When Roan could no longer see her, he shouted, “Then wha' is it you want me to say? Ye're the only one who can end this!”

  “Wrong again,” came a zephyrous voice. “It's between you and Lachlan.”

  * * *

  A singsong moan filled the dining room, augmenting the chilling ambiance of the flickering candlelight that cast squirming long shadows on the walls. The moaner, sitting regally at the head of the table, lifted her aged, finely-boned hands in a gesture of supplication.

  “Come to us, spirit,” she warbled, her eyes closed to the enraptured audience who filled the rest of the twelve chairs about the table. “Hear us and obey. Appear!”

  This was Lachlan's cue.

  Positioning himself between the two worlds, he began to expose a translucent self to the anxious group. He intended to play his part to the hilt this year, right down to the smallest detail. He'd taken particular care in his choice of dress this evening. Although he'd died in a nightshirt, he refused to be caught dead in one again. In lieu of his actual cerement, he wore a ragged, full-sleeved white shirt, and black, tight-fitting pants with slashes about the thighs.

  He was barefoot. Burdensome-looking chains were draped from his shoulders and arms. And to further compliment his efforts to appear the unfortunate victim of a love triangle, he manifested a delightful greenish aura about him.

  The séance group was too intensely watching Viola Cooke's antics to notice Lachlan's wavering presence by the cold fireplace. This piqued him, but he didn't lose heart. He couldn't risk doing anything too suddenly. The old tickers about the table had to be taken into consideration.

  The head of Call Way moaned as she rolled her silver, curly-locked head from side to side. How she knew she wasn't sure, but Viola was aware that Lachlan had materialized behind her. The drama she was lending to the sham invocation was for the benefit of those watching her. It simply wouldn't do for Lachlan to nonchalantly appear and have a nice tete-a-tete with them. No, that wouldn't do at all. The credibility of her grandmother's organization was at stake and, like her grandmother and mother before her, she preferred her one-on-one relationship with the charming laird to remain just that.

  “Come to us, Lannie Baird. Breach the barrier separating you from your former life and connect with us once again.”

  More groaning.

  “I beseech you, spirit, appear.”

  Straining not to grin, Lachlan raised his arms and rattled the chains. As expected, the elderly visitors riveted their attention on him. Three new members, the youngest of which was eighty-one, nearly bolted from their chairs, their eyes wide with fear. Lachlan felt a strong compulsion to laugh. To camouflage this, he raised his hands to his face. The loud clanging of the chains covered the sounds of his mirth until he was able to bring himself under control.

  Then he lowered his arms, in a deliberately slow manner that always pleased the onlookers, and through a scowl, he demanded, “Who...has...summoned...me?”

  Viola Cooke settled her rounded body more comfortably on the chair. Although she dearly wished she could watch L
achlan perform, she was careful to stare ahead, trancelike.

  “There are a few among us who doubt the existence of the afterworld. Enlighten the disbelievers, spirit.”

  Lachlan released a groan to abort a gurgle of laughter.

  “The efterworld is for those freed o' their earthly bonds. I... canna...leave...here...ever.”

  “Tell us why, spirit.”

  “Betrayal and greed shackle me to this purgatory.”

  Lachlan moaned piteously, thrilling the rapt audience. He swayed. The chains jangled. “The livin' continue to dirk me.” He sank to his knees, his hands held out. “I...can...find...nooo... peace!”

  “Oh, give it a rest.”

  The omnipresent voice even stunned Lachlan, whose darting glance swept the room. He had a terrible suspicion who the voice belonged. There was something very familiar about the snide tone.

  Viola searched the mixed expressions of her companions. She hadn't a clue who had spoken. “Spirit?”

  Refusing to dwell on Beth's reasons for interrupting 'business', Lachlan forced himself back into his expected role. “I...am...here.”

  “Is there another spirit trying to contact us?”

  The laird slowly rose to his feet. “I...have...sent...the... disrupter...away.”

  “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?” chided the omnipresent voice.

  Chagrined, Lachlan tried to ignore the questioning looks trained on him. Even Viola turned in her chair to arch a pale eyebrow in his direction.

  “I...am...a lost soul!” he cried theatrically, throwing his arms wide in hopes his lady love would abandon her scheme to mortify him. “I...come...ta— Ooh, sweet Jesus,” he groaned as a beautiful apparition began to form on the center of the dining room table. “No' now, darlin'!”

  Beth fully materialized, her stance held regal with anger, her arms folded against her chest. She didn't spare the visitors a glance. Her stormy gaze was riveted on Lachlan, much to his distress.

  “You had to come,” he scolded, his hand gestures making the chains ring discordantly. “Why, I ask? Are you tha' determined to spoil wha' little happiness I get in this life?”